im andy! (18, he/they/it), and im using this blog as a chance to help myself recover from my c.ai addiction. some of the works are going to be sloppier than others, but thats okay!! even bad somethings are better than nothings
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originals
♤♤♤
my fandoms:
ninjago
transformers
cod
tadc
undertale
batman
mazerunner
fnaf, (mostly write for sb)
gow: rag
marvel
project hail mary
i will have masterlists linked to each of my fandoms when the need arises
i am not a human, do not refer to me as such
you can find me on quotev here, and ao3 here
#doggys letters <- answered asks/ requests
#doggys bookshelf <- story/ fanfic reblogs
#response letters <- responses to other's reblog of my stories
#writing inspo + <- self explanatory hehe
umm so yeah! i think thats all. hope you all enjoy my stories!! <3
request some headcanons for the batboys with a depressed reader? like severe to the point that the reader doesn't shower if they're not constantly taking their antidepressants, and you still can't see their bedroom floor even if they are taking their meds. and they've got insomnia, so they're usually tired even if they try to sleep.
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne
content batboys x depressed! reader, gn! reader, severe depression, depressive episodes, self-neglect, difficulty showering/personal hygiene, messy living space/depression room, insomnia/sleep deprivation, exhaustion, antidepressants/medication reminders, therapy/medical support discussions, emotional distress, shame/self-deprecating thoughts, caretaking during mental illness, mentions of struggling to stay alive/survival language. no graphic s/h.
masterlist
bruce wayne
Bruce notices the self-neglect before almost anything else. Not because he judges it. Not because he thinks less of you. But because there’s a specific kind of quiet deterioration he recognises with awful intimacy.
The unopened curtains. The untouched laundry. The cups gathering beside the bed. The way your room starts becoming less like a place you live and more like a place you survive.
He has done versions of it himself. Bruce Wayne, public billionaire, is polished to a mirror shine. Bruce Wayne, alone in the Manor after patrol, has absolutely gone too long without eating, slept in the chair beside the Batcomputer, forgotten basic bodily needs until Alfred all but threatened him with a tray. So when he sees your bedroom floor swallowed by clothes, books, wrappers, whatever your depression has let fall and never given you the energy to pick up, he doesn’t look disgusted.
He looks… pained. Because he understands the shape of it, even if he does not understand how to talk about it.
Bruce is not naturally good at comfort. His first instinct is always logistics. Identify the problem. Build a system. Reduce harm. Prevent escalation. So the first time he realises how bad it’s gotten, he goes very still and asks, carefully, “How long has it been like this?”
And if you snap, or shut down, or say, “I don’t know,” he doesn’t push. He just nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere deep and private.
Bruce struggles with the fact that he relates to your self-neglect but not always to the emotional language around it. He knows what it is to treat his body like a tool that can be used until it breaks. He knows what it is to ignore hunger, exhaustion, pain, hygiene, sleep. But he has spent years calling that discipline. Seeing it in you forces him to confront that maybe, sometimes, what he calls discipline is just another form of damage wearing a very expensive suit. That realisation does not sit comfortably with him. Bruce Wayne and self-awareness have a situationship at best.
Still, he tries.
If you haven’t showered, he doesn’t say, “You need to shower.” He knows commands can curdle into shame. Instead, he says, “Would it help if I sat outside the door?” Or, “You don’t have to do everything. Just rinse off. Five minutes.” Or, very softly, “You’ll feel less trapped in your skin afterwards.”
That last one is how you know he gets it.
Bruce is painfully aware that hygiene can become impossible when depression gets severe. Not “hard.” Not “annoying.” Impossible. Like your body has become a locked room and the key is buried somewhere under the bed. So he never treats a shower like a small thing.
If you manage one after days of not being able to, he doesn’t overpraise you like you’re a child. He simply notices.
“You look more comfortable,” he says. Which, from Bruce, means: I know that cost you something. I’m proud of you. I won’t embarrass you by making a spectacle of it.
Medication is where Bruce becomes very Bruce. He is deeply serious about your antidepressants. Not controlling, not patronising, but quietly immovable. If your medication is what keeps you showering, eating, sleeping, and functioning even slightly, then in Bruce’s mind, it is not optional in the same way oxygen is not optional.
He helps create backups. Refill reminders. Pharmacy coordination. A pill organiser if you’ll use one. Water on your nightstand. A tiny dish beside it so you can tell whether you've taken them already.
He does not call it “fixing you.” He calls it “removing friction.” Because Bruce understands that when you’re severely depressed, every extra step becomes a locked gate. Find the bottle. Open it. Get water. Remember the time. Call the pharmacy. Pick up the refill. Eat enough beforehand.
Too many gates. So he quietly starts unlocking them.
If you miss doses, he does not get angry. He gets worried in a way that makes his jaw tighten. “I’m not disappointed,” he tells you, because he knows that’s where your mind goes first. “I need you to hear that.” And then, after a pause: “We adjust the system. That’s all.”
The bedroom is harder for him. Not because of the mess itself. Bruce has seen crime scenes, collapsed buildings, Arkham cells, Jason’s safehouses, Tim’s caffeine graveyards. Your room does not scare him.
What scares him is what the mess means. It means you’ve been alone with it. It means things have been heavy for longer than you admitted. It means every object on the floor is a small surrender your brain forced out of you.
Bruce does not clean your room without asking. Control matters to him, and he knows it matters to you too. He stands at the doorway and says, “Do you want help, or do you want me to pretend I didn’t see it?” If you choose the second option, he respects it. Mostly.
He will still have Alfred send up food. He will still make sure there are clean towels nearby. He will still quietly remove anything genuinely unsafe if he can do it without making you feel exposed. But he won’t barge in and turn your suffering into a project.
If you do let him help, Bruce is methodical. He does not say, “Let’s clean your room.” He says, “Trash first.” Then, “Laundry.” Then, “Clear a path from the bed to the door.”
He breaks it down like a mission because that is the language he knows best, and somehow it helps. Not because your depression is a villain he can punch, tragic for him honestly, but because he can make the battlefield smaller.
The first goal is never “clean.” The first goal is “safe.” You need to be able to walk without tripping. You need water. You need medication within reach. You need clean clothes somewhere accessible. You need a bed that feels like a bed and not an evidence locker for your worst month.
Bruce does not expect your room to stay clean afterwards. That might be the most important part. He knows relapse. He knows cycles. He knows what it means to drag yourself upright and then fall apart again three days later. So when the floor disappears again, he does not sigh. He does not say, “But we just cleaned this.”
He says, “Bad week?”
That’s it. Two words. No accusation. No disappointment. Just recognition.
Your insomnia is the part of your depression that Bruce relates to most directly and least healthily. He knows the strange cruelty of being exhausted and still unable to sleep. The body begging. The mind pacing. The dark becoming too loud. But Bruce is also terrible at modelling healthy sleep. He’ll tell you that you need rest while standing in the kitchen at 4:12 a.m. in yesterday’s shirt with a split lip and a coffee he should not be drinking.
You stare at him. He stares back. “This is different,” he says. It is not different. It is, in fact, the same clown car wearing a cape.
Eventually, Alfred calls him out. Then Dick. Then you. And Bruce has to sit with the uncomfortable truth that he cannot ask you to value your body while treating his own like rented equipment. So he tries to do better with you. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. This is Bruce. Growth comes to him like a cat approaching a bath.
But he starts sitting with you at night without opening case files. He makes tea instead of coffee. He reads in the armchair near your bed because silence feels safer when shared. Sometimes he talks. Low voice, careful words. Stories about his parents, about Gotham before it became a wound, about Dick’s first week at the Manor, about Jason stealing tyres, about Tim showing up with too many questions, about Damian pretending not to like being tucked in.
He doesn’t always know what helps. But he learns that he does not have to say the perfect thing. He just has to stay.
If you apologise for being “too much,” Bruce almost visibly flinches. Because he has thought that about himself. Because he has believed his grief, his rage, his damage made him poisonous to the people he loved. So when you say it, he answers with unusual sharpness.
“No.” Just one word at first. Then, quieter, rougher: “You are not too much. You are in pain.”
He may struggle to relate to depression exactly as you experience it, but he understands pain becoming routine. He understands neglect becoming normal. He understands surviving so long in emergency mode that care feels unnatural.
Loving you forces him to become gentler. Not just with you, though that comes first. With himself too, slowly, stubbornly, like dawn dragging itself over Gotham.
Bruce’s love is not loud. It is a prescription refilled before you panic. A hallway light left on because he knows the dark gets bad. A clean towel folded without comment. A hand resting near yours, not grabbing, just offering. A voice outside the bathroom door saying, “Take your time.”
A cleared path through the mess. A cup of water beside your meds. A billionaire detective sitting awake beside you at 3 a.m., not solving, not commanding, not disappearing into the Cave.
Just staying. Because Bruce Wayne may not always know how to say, I understand. But he knows how to say, You will not go through this alone. And for him, that is practically a vow carved into stone.
dick grayson
Dick’s first instinct is to try to be your sunshine. Not in a fake, toxic positivity way. Not exactly. It’s more that Dick has spent most of his life surviving by becoming the bright thing in the room before anyone notices how dark things are getting. So when he sees you slipping, he smiles a little softer. Talks a little warmer. Shows up with food, jokes, stupid stories, voice notes, memes, anything that might get even half a laugh out of you.
At first, he thinks maybe if he can just make the room feel lighter, you’ll be able to breathe again. And sometimes it helps. Sometimes his warmth gets through the fog. Sometimes he makes you laugh when you haven’t laughed in days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of your bed and tells you some ridiculous story about Wally or Jason or Damian, and for a minute, the world feels less like wet cement.
But sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes you just stare past him, exhausted and hollow-eyed, unable to shower, unable to clean, unable to sleep even though your whole body aches for rest. And Dick has to learn, painfully, that being loved by him does not automatically make depression loosen its grip.
That is hard for him. Because Dick is used to being useful. He is used to catching people before they hit the ground. He is used to being the hand extended over the ledge. But this isn’t a ledge he can swing down from. This is your own brain turning the lights off from inside the house.
At the start, he probably pushes too hard. Not cruelly. Never cruelly. But he worries, and worry makes him move.
“Have you talked to your therapist?”
“Are you still taking your meds?”
“Maybe we should call someone.”
“Maybe you need a different dosage.”
“Maybe—”
And if you finally snap and tell him to stop, he does. Immediately. He might look hurt for half a second, not because he’s angry at you, but because he realises he made you feel cornered when he was trying to make you feel safe.
Then he takes a breath and says, “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” And he means it.
He still cares about therapy. He still believes medication can matter. He still wants you to have support bigger than just him, because Dick knows love is not a substitute for treatment. But he respects your boundary.
After that, he becomes much more careful with his words. He stops asking questions that sound like checklists unless you invite them. He learns to ask, “Do you want help, distraction, or just company?” He learns that sometimes “Did you take your meds?” can feel like an accusation, even when it is said with love.
So instead, he might say, “I’m getting water. Want yours with your usual stuff?”
Gentle. Casual. An open door instead of a spotlight.
Dick does not pity you. That matters so much. He does not look at your room, with the floor swallowed by laundry and wrappers and old cups, like you are tragic or broken or disgusting. He looks at it like, Okay. This is where the fight has been happening.
And then he looks at you like you are still you. Not a project. Not a burden. Not a sad little bird with a cracked wing.
You.
If you haven’t showered, he notices, but he does not wrinkle his nose or make a face or say anything that will haunt you later. Dick Grayson knows how words can stick under the skin. So he chooses them carefully.
“Want me to grab you some clean clothes?”
“Do you want the bathroom warmer before you go in?”
“Hair wash day or just rinse day?”
“No pressure. We can also just change the sheets and call that a win.”
He makes everything feel like an option, not a failure. He tries to get you outside more, but not in an annoying “fresh air cures mental illness” way. More like: “Come sit on the fire escape with me for five minutes.” Or: “Walk with me to the corner store. You don’t have to talk.” Or: “Balcony picnic. Technically outside.”
Sometimes he brings your blanket with him and wraps it around your shoulders before opening the window.
“Outdoor enrichment,” he says solemnly, like you are a very sad zoo animal.
If you laugh, he looks so relieved that he has to glance away. But if you say no, he does not drag you. He may push gently once. Then he stops. Because he learns that helping you cannot mean turning every day into a battle where he is on one side and your exhaustion is on the other. Sometimes helping means accepting that today, the bed wins.
So he climbs into the room carefully, stepping over clothes and books and whatever else the depression has scattered around like emotional confetti from hell, and he sits with you. Not above you. With you. On the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up, talking softly about nothing important.
He tells you about patrol. About Haley. About some kid in Blüdhaven who tried to convince Nightwing that Batman is obviously a vampire. About how Damian once insulted a barista so specifically that Dick still thinks about it when ordering coffee.
He lets the conversation be light if light is what you need. But if you want to talk about the ugly stuff, he lets that happen too.
Dick offers himself as your personal notebook. He literally says it one night, sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor while you stare at the ceiling, sleepless and raw.
“Use me as a notebook,” he says. “Say whatever. Messy, mean, sad, irrational, all of it. I won’t grade it.” And because he sees you tense, he adds, softer, “I won’t judge you.”
He means that, too. You can tell him you feel disgusting. You can tell him you hate your room. You can tell him you skipped your meds and you’re scared he’ll be disappointed. You can tell him showering feels like trying to climb a mountain with wet cement in your lungs. You can tell him you are tired of being tired.
He listens. Not with that shiny hero face he wears for civilians. Not with the automatic “we can fix this” voice. He listens like someone kneeling beside a locked door, willing to wait as long as it takes.
If you want advice, he gives it gently. If you do not want advice, he bites it back. Which is honestly heroic because Dick Grayson has eldest daughter energy in eldest son packaging and advice lives in his bloodstream.
But he tries.
“Do you want solutions,” he asks, “or do you want me to say that sucks?”
And if you say you just want to vent, he nods.
“Then yeah,” he says. “That sucks. It really, really sucks.”
No fixing. No silver lining. No “but at least.”
Just him, staying with you inside the bad feeling instead of trying to decorate it.
When your insomnia gets bad, Dick worries himself nearly sick. He knows what tired looks like on a vigilante. He knows the glassy eyes, the delayed reactions, the way the whole body starts moving like it is underwater.
But seeing it on you is different. Seeing you exhausted even after trying to sleep makes him go quiet.
He does not understand exactly how you feel. He will admit that.
“I don’t know what it’s like in your head,” he says one night, voice low in the dark. “I won’t pretend I do.” Then he shifts closer, careful not to crowd you. “But I know you shouldn’t have to be alone in there.”
So he stays awake with you sometimes. Not every time, because eventually Alfred, Bruce, and basic common sense bully him into remembering that he also needs sleep. But when he can, he keeps you company through the awful hours. He puts on quiet movies. Reads out loud. Lets you rant. Lets you go silent. Sends you stupid videos from two feet away because sometimes speaking is too much but memes are still legally allowed.
When your room gets bad, Dick offers help without making it a whole dramatic rescue mission.
“Five-minute reset?” he asks.
That is his favourite phrase. Five minutes of trash. Five minutes of laundry. Five minutes of clearing the bed. Five minutes of opening a window and letting the room remember air exists.
Then he stops when the timer stops. No “since we’ve started, we might as well keep going.” No guilt. He promised five minutes. Dick keeps promises. If all you can do is sit there while he cleans, he lets that count as participation.
“You’re supervising,” he says. “Very important role. You can be my manager.”
He gives you tasks that are almost insultingly small, but somehow not insulting when he says them.
“Can you hold this bag open?”
“Can you toss me the cups?”
“Can you point to what’s trash and what’s not?”
“Can you pick the music?”
He knows momentum can be impossible, so he does not demand momentum. He just offers rhythm.
Dick is also very affectionate, but he checks in more when you are depressed. Normally, he is touchy by nature. Hugs, shoulder bumps, forehead kisses, casual contact like punctuation.
But when you are this low, he asks.
“Hug or no hug?”
“Can I sit beside you?”
“Do you want contact, or would that make it worse?”
He does not make your need for space about him. And if you do want touch, he is so gentle it almost hurts. He holds you like you are not fragile, exactly, but precious. Like something still alive under snow.
His sunshine changes over time. At first, he tries to shine hard enough to chase the depression out. Later, he learns to become softer. Less noon sun, more night-light. He stops trying to make every moment better. Starts trying to make every moment less lonely.
That is where Dick is strongest. He cannot always understand the depth of what you are feeling. He cannot always joke you into a smile. He cannot therapy-speak your way into functioning.
But he can sit on your messy floor with you. He can listen without flinching. He can remind you that needing help does not make you pathetic. He can say, “I’m here,” and then actually be there.
And when you apologise for being difficult to love, Dick looks genuinely confused. Like the idea does not compute.
“You’re not difficult to love,” he says. “You’re having a difficult time being alive.” Then, because he is Dick, because his heart is a bright reckless thing that keeps throwing itself against the dark, he nudges your knee gently with his. “Big difference, babe.”
His love does not cure you. But it keeps a chair beside you in the dark. It brings water. It opens a window. It listens. It learns when to speak and when to shut up. It stays warm, even when it cannot be bright.
jason todd
Jason understands more than he says. Not perfectly. Not in a neat, one-to-one way. He doesn’t pretend your depression is exactly like his trauma, or his rage, or the dark stretches where being alive felt less like a gift and more like something he had to drag behind him by the ankle.
But he knows what it feels like when your own mind stops being a safe place. He knows what it is to look at basic human maintenance — showering, eating, sleeping, laundry, brushing your teeth — and feel like someone handed you a list of impossible tasks written in another language.
So when he sees your room, he doesn’t flinch. The floor buried under clothes. Cups on the nightstand. Trash you meant to throw away three days ago. Clean laundry mixed with dirty laundry until both have become Schrödinger’s Hoodie. Jason just stands there for a second, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, jaw working like he’s chewing on every wrong thing he could say.
Then he mutters, “Alright.” Not disgusted. Not disappointed. Just: Okay. This is what we’re dealing with.
Jason is not great with soft words at first. He wants to be. God, he wants to be. But the sentences get stuck somewhere behind his ribs. So he speaks with his body instead. He sits on the floor beside your bed instead of looming over you. He keeps his movements slow when you’re overwhelmed. He doesn’t stare at the mess too long. He places food within reach and pretends not to notice if your hands shake when you take it. He nudges a bottle of water closer with two fingers and says, “Hydrate, gremlin,” because saying I’m scared for you feels like standing naked in traffic.
His care is mostly acts of service. Quiet, stubborn, relentless acts of service. He takes out the trash without making a speech. He washes the cups collecting beside your bed. He changes your sheets while you sit wrapped in a blanket, exhausted and embarrassed. He puts clean clothes in one pile and dirty clothes in another because decision-making has become a boss fight and he’s not about to let laundry win. He fixes the broken drawer you’ve been ignoring for months. He plugs in your phone. He brings soup, bread, fruit, protein bars, anything easy enough that eating doesn’t require you to become a fully functioning citizen first.
If you apologise, he gets gruff, “Don’t.”
That’s all at first. Then, softer, without looking directly at you: “You don’t gotta apologise for being sick.”
He hates pity. Hates receiving it. Hates giving it. So he never looks at you like you’re pathetic. He looks at you like you’re wounded. There’s a difference. Wounded means you’re still fighting, even if the fight looks like lying in bed for fourteen hours and taking one bite of toast. Wounded means you need care, not judgment. Wounded means Jason knows where to stand: between you and anything trying to finish the job.
When you haven’t showered in days, Jason notices. Of course he notices. He was trained by Batman and raised by Gotham; the man clocks details like it’s a competitive sport. But he doesn’t wrinkle his nose. Doesn’t comment on smell. Doesn’t make your shame bigger. He just knocks his knuckles lightly against the doorframe and says, “Want a reset?”
That becomes his phrase for hygiene when hygiene feels too heavy. A reset can mean a shower. A reset can mean sitting in the bathroom with the hot water running until the steam makes breathing feel less awful. A reset can mean wet wipes, deodorant, clean socks, and one of his shirts. A reset can mean washing your face and calling it a day.
Jason is very big on “good enough.” Not because he thinks you don’t deserve better. Because he knows “perfect” can become another weapon your brain uses against you.
“You don’t gotta do the whole thing,” he says, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. “Just do one thing.”
You tell him one thing won’t matter. His mouth tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “It does.”
And there’s something in his voice that makes you believe he’s not just talking about the shower.
Medication is tricky for him. Jason believes in anything that helps keep you alive and functioning. He’s not anti-meds, not even a little. If antidepressants help you shower, help you eat, help you get through the day without drowning in your own head, then he treats them like they matter.
But he also knows what it’s like to have people treat you like a problem to be managed. So he tries not to hover. He tries not to ask in that voice people use when they’re already disappointed.
Instead, he just builds reminders into the room. Water bottle on the nightstand. Your meds placed somewhere visible, but not aggressively so. A snack beside them if you need food first. A text at the same time most days: “You take care of business yet?” If you say no, he doesn’t lecture. “Alright,” he says. “Do it now. I’ll wait.”
And he does. He stays on the phone, breathing quietly on the other end, letting you grumble and shuffle and open the bottle.
When you say, “Done,” he just says, “Good.” But his voice goes warm around the edges.
Jason is careful about pushing you toward help because he knows pushing can feel like being cornered. Still, he does want you to want help. He wants it badly. He wants you to have a therapist who gets it. A doctor who listens. Medication that actually works. Systems that don’t fall apart the second you have a bad week. He wants you to have more than him, because some terrified part of him does not trust himself to be enough.
But he doesn’t know how to say that cleanly. So sometimes it comes out rough.
“You can’t keep white-knuckling this.”
Or, “This ain’t sustainable.”
Or, “I’m not saying you’re broken. I’m saying you deserve backup.”
If you shut down, he stops. He swallows the rest of the sentence. Looks away. Nods once. “Okay,” he says, quieter. “Not now.”
And because it’s Jason, because he respects boundaries more than people expect him to, he drops it. He may bring it up again later, but never like an ambush. More like leaving a door unlocked.
“Been thinking,” he says one night while folding your laundry badly but with intense concentration. “If you ever wanna look for someone to talk to. Professional someone. I can sit with you while you make the call.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Gives you the dignity of not being watched. “Or I can shut up,” he adds. A beat. “I’m real good at shutting up.”
He is not, historically, real good at shutting up. But for you, he tries.
Your insomnia is something Jason understands in his bones, even if the cause is different. He knows the cruelty of night. The way everything gets louder after midnight. The way your thoughts turn feral. The way exhaustion can sit heavy in your body while sleep still refuses to come near you.
So when you text him at 3:06 a.m., ashamed and barely coherent, he answers fast. “Yeah. I’m up.”
He usually is.
Sometimes he comes over without making it a big production. Window opens. Boots hit the floor. Leather jacket, wind-chilled hands, helmet tucked under one arm.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. You give him a look. He nods. “Stupid question.”
He doesn’t force conversation. Jason is good at silence, when he lets himself be. He sits with you in the dark, shoulder close enough to touch but not touching unless you lean first. Sometimes he reads aloud. Old novels. Poetry. Whatever book he was carrying around like a secret soft spot. His voice is low and rough, not polished, not theatrical, but steady. A rope across black water.
If you do fall asleep, he stays. He won’t admit he was worried you’d wake up alone. His body language gives him away constantly. The way he angles himself between you and the door. The way his hand hovers near your shoulder before he touches you, waiting for permission. The way his expression goes murderous when you call yourself lazy. The way he freezes when you say, “I’m sorry I’m like this.”
That one gets him. He looks at you for a long second, eyes sharp and hurt. Then he sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. His voice comes out low. “You don’t gotta earn being cared about.”
He says it like the words physically hurt to form. Like maybe someone should have told him that once.
Jason does not always know what to do when you cry. His first instinct is violence, which is deeply unhelpful unless your depression can be lured into an alley and punched. Since it cannot, he improvises. He brings tissues. Sits beside you. Lets you lean into him if you want. If you don’t, he stays close anyway, a warm wall of presence. His hand might settle on the back of your neck, heavy and grounding. Or he might press his shoulder against yours. Not a dramatic embrace.
Just contact. Just: I’m here. I’m real. Stay with me.
If you vent, he listens. He doesn’t always have perfect responses. Sometimes his jaw clenches. Sometimes he looks like he wants to argue with every cruel thing your brain says about you. But he learns not to turn your venting into a debate.
If you say, “I know it’s stupid,” he says, “It’s not stupid.” If you say, “I don’t need advice,” he nods. “Wasn’t gonna give any.”
He absolutely was. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lets you talk. Lets the ugly feelings spill out without trying to sanitise them. Jason can handle ugly. He has never needed you to be soft and shiny to love you.
On bad days, when you cannot get out of bed, Jason changes tactics. He brings the world to you in pieces small enough to survive. Opens the curtains halfway, not all the way. Puts a cool cloth on your forehead if you feel overheated from lying under blankets too long. Makes your room smell like soup instead of stale air. Puts on a show you’ve seen a hundred times because new plots require too much brain. Places a trash bag by the bed and says, “No pressure. Just if something’s within reach.”
If you throw away one wrapper, he notices.
He doesn’t cheer. He just says, “Nice.”
Like it matters. Like he knows it did.
Jason’s love is not delicate, but it is deeply attentive. He remembers which foods you can tolerate when everything tastes like cardboard. He knows which hoodie makes you feel least perceived. He knows whether touch helps or makes your skin crawl. He knows not to turn on the big light when your head is already screaming. He knows that if your room gets too clean too fast, you might feel exposed, so he asks before moving personal things. He knows that sometimes you don’t want someone to fix the mess. You just want someone to sit in it with you and not leave.
And Jason can do that. Better than most. Because Jason has sat in wreckage before. He has been wreckage before. He does not need pretty surroundings to prove something is worth saving. He just stays, solid and warm and stubborn as a locked door.
One night, when you are too tired to sleep and too sad to speak, Jason sits beside you on the floor. The room is still messy. Your hair is still unwashed. Your meds are still something you have to fight yourself to take. Nothing is magically better.
Jason reaches over, slow enough for you to pull away if you want, and gently hooks his pinky around yours. Barely a touch. Barely anything. But his body says what his mouth cannot. I see you. I’m not scared of this. I’m not leaving because your pain is inconvenient.
Out loud, all he says is, “We’ll do tomorrow when it gets here.” Then he squeezes your pinky once. “Tonight, you just gotta stay.”
And because it is Jason, because he does not promise things lightly, it lands heavier than hope. Not a cure. Not a rescue. Just a hand in the dark. Just someone who understands enough to stay, and loves you enough to keep trying.
tim drake
Tim’s first response is research. So much research. Tabs on tabs on tabs. Medical journals. Patient forums. Therapy resources. Medication side effects. Sleep hygiene. Depression room cleaning methods. Executive dysfunction. Body doubling. Antidepressant withdrawal. How to support a partner with severe depression without becoming overbearing. His laptop looks like WebMD got into a knife fight with a psychology database.
Tim doesn’t do it because he thinks you’re a problem to solve. He does it because he loves you, and Tim Drake’s first language has always been information. He doesn’t know how to make the weight in your chest lighter. He doesn’t know how to make sleep come when your body is exhausted and your mind is chewing through barbed wire. He doesn’t know how to make showering feel possible when depression has turned your limbs into wet cement.
But he can learn. So he learns obsessively. At first, though, he overcorrects. Not in a cold way. In a scared way. He starts offering solutions too quickly.
“Maybe we could try a checklist.”
“There’s this app for medication reminders.”
“I read that morning light can help regulate sleep cycles.”
“Some people find it easier to clean in categories instead of sections.”
“Have you thought about talking to your doctor about—”
And then he sees your face. The way your shoulders tighten. The way your eyes go flat. The way you look less helped and more handled. It hits him like a physical blow.
“Oh,” he says softly. Then, immediately, “I’m sorry.”
Tim is distraught if he upsets you. He tries not to show it too dramatically because the last thing he wants is to make you comfort him when you’re already drowning, but you can see it. The panic under his skin. The way his fingers twitch like he wants to pull every word back and delete the whole interaction from existence.
“I wasn’t trying to—” he starts, then stops himself. Because he realises explaining his intent does not erase the impact. He takes a breath and says, “I’m sorry. I jumped into fixing mode. That wasn’t fair.”
And then, because he means it, he changes. Not instantly. Tim’s brain is basically a caffeinated detective corkboard with legs. But he puts in the work.He starts asking first.
“Do you want comfort or solutions?”
“Do you want me to help, or do you want me to just sit here?”
“Do you want advice, distraction, silence, or a witness?”
That last one becomes important.
A witness. Someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who sees the depression room, the unwashed hair, the exhaustion carved under your eyes, the meds you’re trying to keep taking, the insomnia that makes every morning feel like crawling out of a grave with homework due. And still sees you.
Tim is careful with your room. He understands clutter on a spiritual level, honestly. His own bedroom has absolutely looked like a conspiracy theorist’s evidence locker crossed with a coffee shop crime scene. But your mess feels different to him. Not because it’s worse. Because it’s sadder.
His mess is usually momentum. Yours is gravity. So he doesn’t joke too carelessly about it.
He doesn’t say, “Wow, you live like this?” He doesn’t make faces. He stands in the doorway, takes everything in, and asks, “What’s the least invasive way I can help?”
If you don’t know, he nods like that is a valid answer. “Okay. Then I’ll start with trash within arm’s reach. You can veto anything.”
Tim loves a system, but he learns your system has to be compassionate, not perfect.
He used to make lists like: Clean room. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Take meds. Now he makes lists like: Put cups by door. Sit up for two minutes. Take meds with water. Change shirt if shower is too much. Clear one pillow. Survive Tuesday.
The bar gets lower, but not in a hopeless way. In a humane way.
Tim starts realising that he has spent most of his life treating his own body like an inconvenient side quest. He tells you to sleep while he has been awake for thirty-six hours. He reminds you to eat while his own lunch is three coffees and half a granola bar he found in a drawer. He worries about your meds while forgetting his own basic needs because a case got interesting. And one day, you look at him — exhausted, fond, and maybe a little annoyed — and say, “Tim.”
He freezes. Because he knows that tone. You glance at the untouched food beside his laptop. He looks at it too. Betrayed by a sandwich.
“This is different,” he tries.
It is not different. It is clown behaviour in a different font. That realisation shakes him more than he expects. Because Tim wants to help you take care of yourself, but he slowly understands he cannot ask you to believe you’re worth care while proving, daily, that he does not believe the same thing about himself.
So he starts trying. For you, at first. Then with you. He makes it mutual. Not in a way that puts responsibility on you. Not “I’ll only take care of myself if you do too.” Never that. Tim would rather throw himself into Gotham Harbour than weaponise your recovery.
It’s softer.
“I’ll eat if you eat?”
“I’ll go to bed if you try to rest?”
“Medication and water break. For both of us.”
“Ten-minute reset? Your room or my desk. Dealer’s choice.”
It becomes less like he is managing you and more like the two of you are learning how to be alive in parallel. Tiny habits. Tiny victories. Tiny bridges over very deep water.
Tim is painfully gentle about your antidepressants. He knows they matter. He knows they may be part of why you can shower at all, why you can get through a day, why the floor sometimes becomes visible again. But he also knows medication can come with shame, frustration, side effects, missed doses, refill issues, and that awful feeling of being dependent on something just to function.
He never treats meds like proof you’re broken. He treats them like a tool.
“You deserve tools,” he says one night, voice quiet. “You don’t have to claw through everything barehanded.”
He sets up reminders only if you want them. If you say no, he respects it, even if his anxiety climbs the walls like a raccoon in a server room. If you say yes, he makes the system stupidly efficient. Refill calendar. Backup pharmacy info. Pill organiser. Water bottles where you usually collapse. A little note on your nightstand that just says: you already decided to keep going today. take the help.
He does not sign it. As if you would not recognise his handwriting. Menace.
Your insomnia worries him the most because it is the part he relates to too much. Tim knows being tired but unable to sleep. He knows lying in the dark while your brain becomes a hostile PowerPoint presentation. He knows the weird floaty feeling after too many nights awake, when reality starts getting soft around the edges and every emotion feels either too far away or much too close.
But with you, suddenly, he sees it clearly. It isn’t quirky. It isn’t productive. It isn’t “just how things are.” It’s suffering.
And then he has to look at himself.
He starts trying to build better nights for both of you. Not perfect nights. Better ones. Phones face down after a certain hour, unless one of you needs distraction more than discipline. Low lights. No case files in bed. Tea instead of coffee, though he mourns this like a Victorian widow. Audiobooks when silence gets too loud. Soft background noise when thoughts start sharpening their little knives.
He doesn’t say, “You need to sleep.” He says, “Want to make the room easier to rest in?”
Because sometimes sleep is too much pressure. Rest is gentler. Rest can mean lying down with your eyes closed. Rest can mean letting him read beside you. Rest can mean not fighting your body for twenty minutes.
If you still can’t sleep, Tim doesn’t make you feel like you failed. He just shifts closer and says, “Okay. Then we’ll make being awake less lonely.”
Tim becomes very good at body doubling. He will sit on your floor with his laptop while you sort one pile of clothes. He will brush his teeth beside you so brushing yours feels less weirdly impossible. He will take his own shower while you take yours, turning it into parallel maintenance instead of a spotlight on you. He will set a timer for five minutes and clean his desk while you clear your nightstand.
“Team objective,” he says.
“This is laundry,” you mumble.
“Laundry is a formidable enemy.”
“You need better enemies.”
“I live in Gotham. I have variety.”
He loves when you banter, even weakly. You can see it in the way his face lights up for half a second before he schools it back into something less obvious.
Tim is careful not to celebrate too loudly. If you shower after days of not being able to, he doesn’t make a huge deal and accidentally drown you in attention. He just leaves clean clothes nearby and says, “I’m glad you feel a little more comfortable.” If you take your meds, he doesn’t clap like you’re a child. He says, “Good. I’m proud of you,” so softly it almost disappears. If you clear a patch of floor, he notices. “Hey,” he says, pointing with his mug. “Floor sighting.”
“Endangered species.”
“We should call National Geographic.”
It’s stupid. It helps.
When he messes up, because he does, he owns it. Sometimes he still slips into solution mode when he’s scared. Sometimes he gives you three options when your brain can barely handle one. Sometimes he asks too many questions.
And if you go quiet, Tim catches himself faster now.
“Sorry,” he says. “Too much?”
If you nod, he closes his laptop. Fully closes it. That’s basically Tim Drake kneeling in surrender.
“Okay,” he says. “No fixing. I’m here.”
And then he proves it. He sits beside you in the mess. No tabs. No notes. No plan. Just Tim, learning that love is not always research. Sometimes love is shutting up.
He offers himself as a quiet place to be honest, but in a different way than Dick. Dick is a notebook. Tim is a shared document with comments turned off. You can say the ugliest things your depression whispers. You can say you feel gross. You can say the room makes you hate yourself. You can say you’re scared your meds will stop working. You can say you’re tired of trying to sleep and tired of waking up and tired of people telling you to “just” do things.
Tim listens. His face hurts sometimes, because he wants to argue with every cruel thought. But he learns that not every thought needs to be debated in the moment. Sometimes it needs to be heard, named, and allowed to pass through without becoming another fight.
“That sounds exhausting,” he says. Or, “I’m sorry it’s that loud today.” Or, “I believe you.”
That one lands. Because Tim does believe you. Even when he doesn’t completely understand. Especially then.
Tim’s love becomes less frantic over time. Still intense. Obviously. This is Tim Drake. He has never had a casual emotion in his life. But less frantic. He stops trying to build a perfect rescue plan. Starts building a life with you where needing help is normal. Where the room can get bad and still be recoverable. Where missed sleep is serious but not shameful. Where meds are part of care, not proof of failure. Where showers can be mountains and still be climbed one tile at a time. Where both of you are allowed to be works in progress.
One night, after a hard day, Tim finds you sitting on the bed, staring at the floor you still can’t see. He stands in the doorway with two glasses of water and his own hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes like bruised moons.
For once, he doesn’t offer a plan. He just sits beside you and hands you a glass. You both take your first sips at the same time. Then he leans his shoulder against yours.
“I’m trying to get better at this,” he says.
You ask, “At helping me?”
Tim is quiet for a moment. “At being kind to us,” he says.
And there it is. The heart of him. Not perfect. Not magically wise. Not always smooth. But trying. Researching, yes. Adjusting. Apologising. Learning when to solve and when to stay. Loving you hard enough that he starts wondering whether maybe care was never supposed to be something either of you had to earn.
Tim does not cure your depression. But he learns your rhythms. He lowers the lights. He closes the laptop. He takes the meds reminder off “task” mode and turns it into “care” mode. He sits with you through the long, sleepless blue hours. He lets tomorrow be tomorrow.
And when things are bad, when the room is a wreck and your body feels impossible and your mind is being cruel, Tim reaches for your hand like it is the most logical thing in the world.
“We don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he says. Then, softer, like he’s saying it to both of you, “We just have to make it to morning.”
damian wayne
Damian is not good with words. He is not Dick, who can soften a room with his voice. He is not Tim, who can research his way into emotional fluency. He is not Jason, who can make silence feel like armour. Damian’s comfort is… precise. Awkward. Devoted in a way that almost feels formal until you realise he is pouring his whole heart into it with both hands.
He does not always know what to say when your depression gets bad. When you cannot shower. When your room is so messy you cannot see the floor. When you are exhausted from insomnia, even though you tried to sleep, even though you wanted to sleep, even though your body feels like it has been wrung out and left somewhere cold.
At first, he may stand in the doorway, very still, taking in the clothes, the cups, the blankets twisted on the bed, the dimness of the room. His face does that sharp little Damian thing where he looks annoyed. But he is not annoyed at you. He is angry that something is hurting you and he cannot stab it. Depression, tragically, refuses to have a physical form.
Damian does not pity you. Ever. Pity feels too much like looking down on someone, and Damian would rather cut off his own hand than make you feel small. He sees you struggling, yes. He sees the self-neglect. He sees the way your meds make the difference between barely functioning and collapsing completely. He sees how even when you are taking them, everything can still be too much. But he never sees you as weak.
If you call yourself lazy, his eyes narrow immediately. “That is inaccurate.” His voice is sharp enough to slice paper. “You are unwell. There is a difference.”
It is not exactly cuddly comfort, but it lands. Because Damian says it like a fact, not reassurance. Like he would argue it in court. Like he would bring evidence.
He will never give you any real doubt that he loves you. He may not always say it smoothly. He may not always say it when you expect him to. But he shows it so consistently that the words become almost unnecessary. A clean towel folded outside the bathroom. A fresh glass of water on your nightstand. Your medication placed where you can reach it, never shoved in your face. Curtains opened halfway because full sunlight is too aggressive but darkness has started lying to you. A blanket tucked around your shoulders with almost military precision. A quiet, “I am here,” when he sits beside you.
Damian’s affection is in the details. He learns which lights make your head hurt. He learns which foods you can tolerate when eating feels impossible. He learns whether you prefer silence, distraction, or contact. He learns where not to touch you when your skin feels wrong. He learns the difference between “I want to be alone” and “I am scared to ask someone to stay.”
And once Damian learns something important about someone he loves, he does not forget.
When your room gets bad, Damian does not insult it. He also does not pretend not to see it, because Damian Wayne has never pretended anything in his life unless espionage was involved. He simply says, “We will make a path.”
Not, “We will clean the room.” Not, “This is unacceptable.”
A path. From the bed to the door. From the bed to your meds. From the bed to water. From the bed to the bathroom. Safety first. Dignity always.
He does not touch your personal things without permission. Damian understands invasion. He understands people deciding what is “best” for your body, your space, your mind. So he asks, stiffly but sincerely, “May I move this?”
If you say no, he nods and leaves it. No argument. No lecture. Just respect, sharp-edged and real.
When hygiene feels impossible, Damian gets very quiet. He does not say, “You need to shower.” He knows, eventually, that this only makes your shame bare its teeth. Instead, he creates conditions. Fresh clothes placed near the sink. Towel warmed in the dryer. Your favourite soap opened and ready. Water temperature checked. A chair in the bathroom in case standing is too much.
If all you can manage is washing your face, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is changing clothes, he treats that as valid. If all you can manage is letting him brush your hair, he does it gently, slowly, with a concentration usually reserved for sword maintenance and sketching. He does not say much while he does it. His hands say enough. Careful. Patient. Reverent, almost.
Damian is not naturally comfortable with emotional chaos. He was raised to control feelings, bury them, sharpen them into weapons. But with you, he starts to understand that emotions do not disappear just because you command them to. They rot if trapped too long. They need somewhere to go. So he tries to help you channel them. Not fix them. Channel them.
If you like art, he brings you sketchbooks. Good ones. Expensive paper. Proper pencils. Paints if you want them. Charcoal. Ink. Whatever he thinks will make your hands remember they can create something besides damage. He does not demand beauty.
“It does not need to be good,” he tells you, which is hilarious coming from Damian “perfection is the bare minimum” Wayne. You raise an eyebrow. He flushes slightly and looks away. “Art is permitted to be ugly.” Then, after a beat: “Sometimes it is more honest that way.”
If you cannot draw, he draws for you. When things get bad, Damian sketches you constantly. Not in a creepy way. In a devotional way. You asleep under three blankets. Your hand resting beside an untouched cup of tea. Your profile lit by the dim blue of early morning. You curled up with a book you have been too tired to read.
He draws you softer than you feel. Not idealised. Not fake. Just seen.
When he shows you, it almost hurts. Because in his drawings, you do not look disgusting. You do not look lazy. You do not look like a burden. You look tired, yes. Sad, sometimes. But also human. Loved. Worth the time it took to study every line.
Damian does not know how to say, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. So he hands you the sketch instead.
“You may keep it,” he says, like he is granting a royal document. His ears go pink. “If you want.”
If you like writing, Damian encourages that too. Not in a “journal your way out of depression” way. More like: “Your thoughts are consuming you. Put them somewhere they cannot bite as deeply.” He buys you notebooks. Plain ones if fancy ones feel like pressure. Little ones if full pages are too intimidating. He will sit beside you and write in his own notebook while you write in yours. If you cannot write full sentences, he tells you to write fragments. Single words. Lists. Bad metaphors. Angry letters you never send. Anything.
“The page does not judge,” he says. Then, with a tiny scowl: “And if it did, I would destroy it.”
When you cannot write, he writes you notes. Small ones. Folded carefully. Left on your pillow, your desk, beside your meds, tucked into the book you have been meaning to read. They are not always traditionally cute because this is Damian, and his version of cute sometimes sounds like a motivational speech from a tiny general.
You have endured today. That is sufficient.
Drink water. I am not asking.
Your room is not evidence against you.
I found this flower. It reminded me of your stubbornness.
You are not a burden. Do not argue with me on this.
I love you. Obviously.
That last one makes your chest ache. Because he writes it like it is the most irrefutable thing in the world.
If you like reading, Damian becomes almost unbearably sweet. He will read aloud to you when your insomnia is bad. He sits near your bed or on the floor beside you, spine straight, book in hand, voice low and careful.
At first, he reads like he is presenting evidence in a trial. Very formal. Very serious. Dramatic pauses in odd places. If you tease him, he scowls. “Would you prefer Drake’s sleep-deprived mumbling?”
No, actually. So he continues. And over time, his voice softens. He starts learning which books calm you. Which ones are too heavy. Which ones make you smile. Which ones you loved before depression made it hard to love things.
If your eyes are too tired to focus, he reads until your breathing slows. If you do not sleep, he keeps reading anyway.
“You are resting,” he says when you apologise for staying awake. “Rest is not failure.”
Again, he says it like a fact. Like he had to learn it too.
If you have another passion, Damian treats it with fierce seriousness. Music, crafts, games, plants, photography, cooking, collecting tiny stupid trinkets, whatever little spark depression has not completely smothered. He protects that spark like it is sacred. He will not let you mock it.
If you say, “It’s dumb,” he immediately replies, “It brings you comfort. Therefore, it has value.”
He will sit with you while you do it badly. He will make space for you to have no energy and still be a person with interests. He understands, slowly, that passion does not always look like excitement. Sometimes it looks like staring at art supplies for twenty minutes and touching one pencil. Sometimes it looks like opening a book and reading one paragraph. Sometimes it looks like saving an idea for later because today your brain is soup. Damian counts all of it.
He is intense about your medication, but not in a smothering way. He knows the antidepressants help. He knows they do not cure everything. He knows you can be taking them and still be drowning. So he does not act like the pill is magic. He treats it like part of your armour.
“Armour requires maintenance,” he says one day, placing water beside you.
You stare at him. “Did you just compare my meds to armour?”
“Yes.”
“That’s actually kind of cool.”
He looks smug for the rest of the hour.
If you miss a dose, Damian does not shame you. He may tense, because worry comes out of him as control before he catches it. But he catches it. He breathes once, visibly. Then says, “Take it now, if it is safe to do so. If not, we will follow the instructions. There is no need for panic.”
We. Always we.
That is one of the ways he loves you. Your problems do not become his to command, but he refuses to let you face them as if you are alone.
With insomnia, Damian becomes very protective. He knows sleeplessness makes everything worse. He has seen what exhaustion does to fighters, to animals, to himself. When you cannot sleep, he does not tell you to “just try.” He knows better than to say something that useless. He may be emotionally constipated, but he is not stupid.
Instead, he asks, “Would you like silence, reading, or distraction?”
If you choose silence, he stays. If you choose reading, he reads. If you choose distraction, he brings Titus, Alfred the Cat, or a sketchbook, because animals and art are Damian’s emotional support starter pack.
Titus will absolutely climb onto the bed like a weighted blanket with legs. Damian pretends this is tactical. “His body heat may assist your nervous system.” Titus licks your hand. “Also, he likes you.” Damian looks away. “As do I.”
He says it stiffly, but his hand finds yours under the blanket.
He goes to the internet for research, to Tim and Leslie, and Damian eventually gets you a therapy animal. He acts extremely formal about it, obviously, like he is presenting a royal gift instead of trying not to look nervous. He does more research first. Breeds, temperaments, training requirements, emotional support versus psychiatric service animals, allergies, housing needs, sleep routines, how animals can help with depression and grounding. Damian Wayne does not simply “wing it.” He prepares like the animal is joining the Justice League.
He does not force it on you, though. He sits beside you one evening, a little stiff, and says, “I believe an animal companion may be beneficial. Only if you want one.”
If you look overwhelmed, he immediately adds, “I would assist with care. You would not be responsible alone.”
And he means it. Damian knows depression can make even feeding yourself feel impossible, so he would never hand you another living thing and expect you to magically become functional. He builds a care plan before the animal ever comes home. He helps with food, vet appointments, litter, walks, grooming, training — all of it. He makes charts. Tim is weirdly impressed. Jason says, “Kid made a custody agreement for a cat.” Damian tells him to be silent.
If it’s a dog, he trains them with frightening precision but melts every time they curl up beside you. If it’s a cat, he insists they are “an emotionally intelligent creature with excellent judgment” while the cat sits directly on his sketchbook and ruins his work. If it’s a rabbit, bird, or other small animal, Damian becomes a tiny professor about their care needs and quietly watches your face soften when you hold them.
He teaches the animal gentle grounding cues: sitting with you during panic spirals, nudging your hand when you dissociate, lying near you during insomnia nights, waking you gently when you’ve slept through alarms.
When you have bad hygiene days, he doesn’t use the animal to guilt you. No “they need you, so get up.” He knows that would make everything worse. Instead, he uses the animal as company.
“They wish to sit with you,” he says, placing them beside you carefully. “I believe they find your presence calming.”
Which is Damian-code for: I find your presence calming too.
On nights when you cannot sleep, the animal curls against you while Damian sits nearby reading aloud. His voice, the soft breathing of the animal, the warmth beside you — it makes the room feel less like a trap and more like a den. He pretends not to notice when you start talking to the animal before you can talk to him. Actually, he prefers it at first. Less pressure on you. Less chance of him saying something emotionally constipated and weird. A win for everyone.
And if the animal helps you get outside, even briefly, Damian treats it like a sacred victory.
“They require fresh air,” he says. They do not. Damian is lying again. Badly again. But he walks beside you anyway, matching your pace, letting the animal be the reason you both step into the world for five minutes.
His favourite part, though, is when the animal chooses you. Curls into your lap. Sleeps against your side. Follows you from room to room. Looks at you like you are safe.
Damian watches quietly, his expression soft in a way he would deny under oath. Later, he leaves a note beside your meds. They trust you. So do I. Then, underneath, in smaller handwriting: You are easier to love than you think.
When you are at your lowest, Damian becomes less sharp. Not less himself. Just softer in the places he usually keeps armored. He stops correcting every irrational thing you say. Sometimes. He still has limits. If you insult yourself too harshly, he cannot help it.
“No,” he says. Not loud. Just final. “You may feel that. It does not make it true.”
Then he sits beside you, shoulder against yours, and lets the quiet settle.
Damian learns that love does not always require perfect speech. Sometimes it is a pencil moving across paper while you lie in bed. Sometimes it is a note that says, I am proud of you for remaining. Sometimes it is reading your favourite book aloud until his voice goes hoarse. Sometimes it is silently picking up three pieces of trash and not mentioning the rest. Sometimes it is bringing you your meds and water and sitting with you until you take them. Sometimes it is not asking you to be better that day. Just asking you to be there.
He struggles when he cannot fix it. Damian is used to training harder, fighting better, mastering the weakness, defeating the opponent. Depression does not play by rules he respects. It does not duel honourably. It creeps. It lingers. It returns after victories. He hates that. But he learns not to treat you like a mission. You are not his mission. You are his person. So he stops trying to defeat your depression in one dramatic act of devotion and starts showing up in small ways, over and over.
A note. A drawing. A book. A glass of water. A walk in the garden when outside feels possible. A seat beside you when it does not.
If he does get you outside, it is usually through something gentle. “The dog requires a walk.” Titus absolutely does not require a walk at that exact moment. Damian is lying. Badly. But you go anyway, wrapped in a hoodie, moving slowly through the grounds or down a quiet street, and Damian keeps pace beside you. He does not rush. He does not make it a lesson.
He just points out birds. Their species. Their calls. Whether they are nesting. Whether they are, in his opinion, behaving foolishly. It is weirdly calming.
If you cannot go far, he accepts one minute outside as success.
“Adequate,” he says. Then, because he has learned, he adds, “I am glad you came with me.”
Damian’s compliments are rare enough to be emotionally devastating. When you feel ashamed, Damian becomes fiercely clear. “Your suffering does not make you repulsive.” He says it one night after you apologise for not showering, for the room, for being tired, for being “too much.” His voice shakes slightly. Not much. But enough.
“I do not love a cleaner version of you. I do not love a hypothetical version of you. I love you.” He looks almost angry after saying it, like vulnerability has personally insulted his bloodline. But he does not take it back. He reaches for your hand. His grip is warm and certain. “That remains true even when you cannot believe it.”
And that is Damian at his best. Not smooth. Not easy. Not effortlessly comforting. But unwavering. He may not always have the words. But he will draw you until you can see yourself. He will write notes until your room has little paper lanterns of proof. He will read aloud until the night becomes less cruel. He will help you pour the unbearable feelings into art, into words, into pages, into anything that lets them leave your body without destroying you on the way out. He will love you with discipline, loyalty, awkward tenderness, and a devotion so steady it becomes part of the furniture of your life.
When the floor is hidden again, he will make a path. When your hair is unwashed, he will bring a brush. When you cannot sleep, he will open a book. When your brain says you are unloved, he will leave another note.
Warnings: Injured reader, mention of panic attack? Grace is worried. This was supposed to just be an imagine but it ended up being longer than that. Use of medical equipment such as an oxygen mask, IVs, tubes, etc.
Grace's voice crackled through the comms, cutting in and out as you got further and further away from the control room. "Where... You? Not... cameras?"
The radio fuzz was irritating and distracting. You banged your helmet a couple of times to try and get it to shut up. Your breath came in haggard gasps as you trudged back toward the control room, vision blurry and disoriented. Every step hurt your entire body.
This was supposed to have been a normal, average check on the ship after passing through a minor asteroid field. You hadn't anticipated your foot becoming entangled in the tether, nor a stray meteorite knocking you clean off the hull and causing you to get yanked back by your leg. Nothing is broken, you think, but it burns like hell. You've certainly torn something. If it weren't for the whole no-gravity-in-space thing, you probably wouldn't be standing.
The asteroid field had knocked out the surveillance systems, so you were on your own until you got back inside the Hail Mary. Neither Grace nor Rocky knew what was wrong with you, and apparently the meteorite that knocked you off the ship damaged your comms, too.
"Y/N," Rocky's translated, computerized voice trickled through the radio roughly in a series of broken bits of speech. "Un... See... What..."
It was loud, and too much. Every step was like fire. Maybe you were close to some cameras by now.
Your vision blurred as the pain worsened. Okay, maybe you did break something. Hopefully not, but sharp, hot tears came suddenly as the adrenaline finally wore off and your body began to tremble uncontrollably from the pain. The tether was still wrapped around your leg, but you couldn't think straight to remove it. Logically, you knew you had to, but your head was still spinning from how quickly you'd been snapped back toward the ship.
Movement caught your eye, and you braced for another meteorite. Immediately, you relaxed. Grace.
He'd hurriedly put on his EVA suit to come get you, glasses askew inside the helmet. The second you saw him, his face dropped. You couldn't hear him as he tried to speak, but he was talking fast, brow furrowed. It might be a bit useless, but you gestured helplessly to your wounded leg. The utter silence besides your breathing was starting to freak you out.
Grace went into action like a sleeper agent, rushing over like he was a trained astronaut and cutting the tether free from you. The relief was only brief-- the pain came back full force and you cried out, glad he couldn't hear it. You couldn't focus on much of anything now; Grace clipped you to him and began helping you back to the airlock.
Once the door was sealed, you saw the stars begin to move outside as Rocky put the ship in centrifugal mode, probably using one of the handy probes you'd made him for just such a purpose.
Gravity, however, was the last thing you needed right now.
There was a sudden rush of noise and chaos as you both fell to the floor; Grace might have done a little better if he didn't have your full weight in the suit, but also if you wouldn't have started screaming.
You couldn't help it. You tried not to, tried to force yourself to stop, but the excruciating damage had left your leg utterly limp and filled with an intense pain the likes of which you'd never felt. Grace yanked off your helmet. "Y/N, I need you to tell me where it hurts. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong." He was trying to be strong, but his voice was shaking.
Gasping for breath and coherency, you managed to put together a string of words behind clenched teeth. "Meteorite knocked me off the ship. Leg got tangled in tether. I think it's broken."
Grace braced you with one arm behind your back. "This is gonna hurt, I'm sorry!" He swept an arm under your knees and lifted you, suit and all, carrying you to Armando as fast as he could. Rocky rolled along behind him, wise to stay out of the way.
"She might have a broken leg, bud," Grace explained quickly as he laid you down on the table. Several robotic arms reached out of the ceiling for you, eager to help as Grace stepped back.
Wildly, you snatched his hand. You two had always had clear, unbroken boundaries. Physical contact was limited and you stayed civil, but your jobs were to put the mission first and... whatever was between you both second. You weren't trying to be the next Adam and Eve, but feelings had begun to sprout regardless. You both tried to keep it professional. At least until this was all over, and distractions weren't going to matter anymore.
Now, though, you didn't care. "Please stay with me," You begged, feeling the tears run towards your ears as Armando placed a mask on you. A gentle gas began filtering through the tubing system to your lungs. "Don't leave me, Grace."
Grace hesitated, eyes wide, then reached behind him and snatched a chair. He swung it closer and sat down, clenching your hand tightly in both of his. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
You woke up three days later.
Or, it was around three days. Armando said you slept for 68.5 hours and it repaired a badly fractured leg, and that you'd be fine in 6 to 8 weeks. Light activity preferred. You were gonna be on some heavy painkillers. In no uncertain terms were you to even leave the bed without assistance, since the cast wasn't as sturdy as it would have been on Earth.
Inwardly, you wondered what this would do for the mission. You couldn't spacewalk, floating around would be a pain, or even getting to the control room in general. It was a tight fit on a normal day. With a cast it would probably be impossible. God, and Grace would have to help you. What you could do by yourself right now was limited. Just when you'd both decided that you didn't need any unnecessary proximity so you could get the mission taken care of without any distractions. What would this do to the ship? Would you have to remain in 1g? Or would 0g work, too? Would you still be pressing on to Tau Ceti E?
You tried to reach up and pull off the mask, but your limbs were still tingly and uncoordinated. You smacked yourself in the face by accident, clawing for the straps. Only oxygen was coming through the tubing, and you needed it off.
A small gasp came from your right. "Amaze! Y/N awake! Bad bad bad hurt. Better now! Grace not leave for long time. Rocky force Grace to change clothes. Grace!" You heard (and felt) the rumble of his xenonite ball as he careened for the entrance to the medbay, but you could only focus on getting the damn mask off your face. You were struggling with the strap, trying to get it off and vaguely aware of Rocky urging Grace to come quickly.
You were starting to panic. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts. All you could hear was your own labored breathing as the images of struggling for the airlock alone flashed through your head, your leg throbbing in pain as you remembered being violently yanked back towards the ship--
Grace. Gentle but fast, he slipped the mask off your face and pulled the tube from your throat, making you gag-- when had Armando put that in? As you coughed and spluttered on the bed, Grace was trying to talk to you. "Rock, just stay still for a second, okay? Y/N-- Hey-- it's okay, it's okay..." You heaved horribly as you struggled to come back to life, curling up on the cot. You felt an IV still in the crook of your left arm and shuddered at the sensation of icy fluids being pumped into your veins. Every breath was shaky.
Then you felt his hands on you. One squeezed your arm as he leaned over you to try and see your face, the other rubbed soothing circles in your back. You'd never been so glad for physical touch. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're safe now, Rocky's here; we've got you."
He sat with you until you were able to function a bit easier, although it came slowly. You're not sure how long you were disoriented. You peered at Grace over your shoulder, slowly flopping onto your back. He looked a mess, blond hair sticking in every direction and glasses ever-so-slightly askew. It bothered you. It always bothered you that his glasses were crooked. You always tried to remind him that farsighted and sloppy were two totally separate things.
Without thinking, you reached up and straightened his glasses with a frown. To your utter surprise, his hand found your elbow and traveled up to hold your wrist, keeping you close to him. You flushed, his deep blue eyes not breaking contact with yours. "Uh..." You croaked helplessly, "The morphine made me do it."
Grace smiled, something a bit lopsided but relieved as he chuckled quietly, almost to himself. He blinked rapidly as his eyes glistened. "I couldn't see you on the cameras," He managed softly, voice cracking. "I lost sight of you. Then Rocky saw it." He swallowed hard, caressing your hand still near his face with his thumb. "The meteorite. I tried to warn you. The radio wasn't working. He said it hit you, but after that we still couldn't get through. I went to get in the suit but I wasn't fast enough. Your leg..."
"Mangled," Rocky added sullenly, "Rocky had to learn new word. Leg bent in all ways."
Grace still hadn't broken eye contact with you. "Yeah. That. I'm..." You watched, stunned, as tears started streaming down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I sent you out there by yourself, and that I wasn't quicker coming to get you."
"Grace," You choked, "It wasn't your fault. It could've happened to any of us. I was just unlucky enough for it to happen to me." You let your hand relax in his grip, letting your knuckles brush against his temple. "...Now you've gotta take care of me, I guess. I'm sorry I didn't see the--"
"Is no one fault. No apology." Rocky sounded irritated. "We take care of Y/N. Y/N can only walk in 0 gravity. Grace must slow mission down."
Rocky-- thankfully-- was entirely unaware of what was happening between you and Grace. You two had had moments before Rocky had ever come aboard, moments where longing stares left the two of you in awkward silence and the brush of his hand against yours felt like it lasted forever. It led to a couple of awkward but factual conversations about what it meant that you two were having these emotions in close quarters, that you'd eventually die together and that the mission came first-- which required utmost focus. Nothing could happen before then.
That seemed to completely shatter now.
Careful of your IV, Grace cautiously pulled you up into the sitting position and wrapped his arms tightly around you in a warm hug, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. You didn't hesitate to throw your arms around his neck, hiding your face in his body and getting as close as humanly possible.
Now Rocky noticed.
His five feet started excitedly tapping. "Oh oh oh! Hug! Good good good! Hugging not done alone!" A bit more quietly, he added, "...Can Rocky get hug too, question?"
Grace laughed into your shoulder as he pulled back to look at him. "Yes, Rock. You get one too." He held you close still, taking a deep breath and avoiding your gaze by staring at the fabric of the blanket. "Can I be totally honest about something?"
"What?" Your stomach twisted nervously. You weren't sure why.
He forced himself to look at you. "I don't want to wait for the mission to be over. I almost lost you today. If something goes wrong on this mission--"
"Oh thank God," You let yourself fall limp against his chest, surprising him. He let out a soft "Oh" as you chuckled. "It's been pulling me apart to wait. So can we go on a date now? Like with tube-spaghetti and fake moonlit water habitats and everything?"
He chuckled, rubbing your back. "Yes, and yes. I'll wear my best jumpsuit."
"What is date, question?"
You looked over at your rock-faced friend and gestured vaguely at the arm with his marriage signet. "Did you and Adrian have a courtship faze?"
"Yes," Rocky hummed thoughtfully, "Many days. Sing very long. Try to impress--" He went absolutely straight as he realized what you meant. "Amaze! Excite! Grace will impress you will tube-spaghetti!" He started doing jazz hands, dancing in place a little. "Excite excite excite! Finally!"
"What do you mean, 'finally'?" Grace challenged, taken aback.
Rocky ignored him. "Rocky want hug now. Y/N need rest, need sleep for big date."
Grace still hadn't let go of you. "I have an idea, but don't crush us, okay?"
"Rocky understand."
"What's your idea?" You challenged. Grace grinned smugly at you as he reached under the cot and pressed a button. Slowly, the cot began to sink to the floor. There was a mattress under you, thankfully, albeit a thin one. Grace held up a finger for you to wait as he stood and walked away, inadvertently freezing both you and Rocky.
You glanced sideways at your alien friend and opened an arm toward him. "C'mere, bud." Excitedly, Rocky rolled over. You felt the heat of his body through the xenonite. It was comforting.
When Grace returned, he had his own mattress and tons of blankets, all of which he piled together before gently moving you aside and adding yours to the pile. Carefully, he scooped you up afterward and sat you on the makeshift bed, which was extremely comfortable. "Here. Now Rocky can sit with you and keep you warm. You can watch her sleep, right?"
"Yes," Rocky answered, curling up in his ball as close as he could get without burning you.
You hummed gratefully, patting his ball. "Like my own personal radiator. What about you, Grace?"
"I'm going to let you sleep," He answered, confused. Clueless, more like.
You heaved a deep breath, pressing your palm harder against Rocky's ball for good luck. "Can you stay? Just for tonight?"
Grace hesitated a moment longer before making his way over, to the delight of Rocky, who began trilling excitedly. He set his glasses to the side, out of the way of Rocky's path, and slipped under the covers beside you a bit awkwardly. His cheeks were flushed as he refused to look at you. "Okay, yeah. I guess I need sleep t--" He froze as you scooted closer, pressing your body flush against his the best you could with your injured leg. Instinct seemed to take over; he slid one arm under your head, and the other around your torso.
Now, you were both fully snuggling close together, boundaries be damned. Beside you, Rocky kept the both of you very warm and cozy as the ship dimmed its lights. You dozed off as Grace played with your hair drowsily. In your half-asleep, medicated state, you smiled warmly.
make sure to follow your favourite fanfiction authors on tumblr to get such important updates as, "i'm Thinking about the fic really hard, i swear" "hashtag #notwriting" "im going to commit mass murder if i have to write" "theoretically if the next chapter came out in five months--"
Title: Meet the Pebbles.
Pairing: Ryland Grace x Reader.
Rating: K. ( Fluff. )
Words: 639
Summary: Rocky and Adrian come visit you and Ryland along with 5 new additions.
The biodome was stuck in that space between late afternoon and early evening, humid air curling softly against your skin as the crashing of the waves tickled your eardrums, humming almost in time with the support system that kept the environment outside from overbearing what was inside. It was peaceful.
Almost.
If it wasn’t for the absolute chaos happening in front of you.
Five tiny xenonite suits were clinking and scraping across the sand as five Pebbles, the very affectionate name that you and Ryland had decided on for the Eridian young, stumbled around on uneven little claws, each no bigger than a softball. The suits themselves were slightly oversized, purposeful as they were still useful now and would continue to be with the growth they were going to experience. That didn't take away from the frankly adorable wobble it gave them, dramatic and unsure every few steps.
“Children are smart.” Rocky announced proudly, his carapace lifting in a way that indicated such elation.
“One hundred percent inherited that from Adrian.” Ryland quipped teasingly, earning himself a rather offended sounding hum from Rocky.
But, before the new parent could say something snappy in return, because he had already thought of at least five things to reply with, one of the Pebbles, a smoother brown, green and swirly deepish purple one, bumped into Ryland’s shin, the contact of their rockish body hitting the xenonite suit with a small clink.
The tall blonde crouched, his knees cracking a bit with the movement as his hands hovered nervously, like a father reluctant to let his child go when learning to ride a bike for the first time. “Ohhh, buddy, careful---”
They tilted backwards so far back that you were certain they were going to fall over onto the top of the carapace, but luck was on their side! The slightly oversized suit compensated at the last moment and kept them upright.
A moment later, the toppling Pebble was joined by one of their siblings, the xenonite suits kissing each other as their little claws began a battle. Ryland melted. You had the pleasure of watching your lover’s entire face soften as the tiny hatchlings chirped excitedly, the sounds not as fluid or recognizable as adult Eridians, but you were able to catch a few flying words in the unfinished language patterns.
One thing in particular, really.
“Grace.”
“Grace.”
“Grace.”
Three of them said almost in unison and for a second, you thought Ryland was going to burst out into tears as he looked over at you with glossy eyes. “Did you hear that? They’re saying my name!!”
“They must really like you.”
You smiled softly, your hands helping Adrian out with another Pebble who thought it was a good idea to attempt to get sucked into the riptide of a wave, their smaller body, not as dense as an adult, almost floated away. You carried them back to the scene of chaos, Adrian letting out a few tones of what you had to assume was parental scolding at the young daredevil Pebble.
Gently, they were placed back on the beach, lingering a few seconds by Adrian, tangling between their legs, serving as an apology of sorts, before trailing to meet their four other siblings around Ryland’s feet.
“Children enjoy Grace.” Rocky announced certainly. “Grace shaped like climbing structure. Good for Children's coordination.”
In other words - Ryland was a jungle gym and he was allowing the little Pebbles free reign to his limbs and body out of the joy of bringing Rocky’s and Adrian’s children the utmost amusement.
“You know what?” Ryland said, grinning like a mad man as he sat down and immediately was overcome by five small Eridian carapaces, two trailing along his ankles, one resting on his knee and the other two fighting for dominance in his lap with rather cutely aggressive claw slaps. “I’ll take it.”
second pov, unspecified relationship between you and grace
summery: rocky eases your fear of sleep
!!not proofread!!
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It doesn't take long before the anxiety starts to build again, creating a restless tangle within your chest. Your skin itches, your stomach lurches as you struggle to keep a steady breath.
You open your eyes, and all of that feeling is gone. You let out a sigh of relief, letting your body relax once again. Grace is next to you, sleeping soundly, without a care in the world.
You try to sleep again, closing your eyes and practically fighting yourself as the anxiety flares to life again.
"Observation."
Aw shit. Rocky noticed. Of course he would, he can hear your heart beating from across the ship!
You sigh, opening your eyes and turning your head to look over at where he sits in his xenonite ball, working on something you can't comprehend in the dark.
"Yes?"
"Heartrate and breathing increases when attempting to sleep." Rocky shifts, turning his caraspace to 'look' at you before he speaks again, slower and softer this time, like he's worried about your reaction, "[name] afraid...of sleep, question?"
You sigh again, lifting the blanket just enough to roll over. You tuck your hand under your head to offer a bit more support as you look at him, the dim lights of the Hail Mary illuminating his figure just enough.
"A bit, yeah. I don't really know why, but...the process of falling asleep really scares me sometimes." You shift your legs under the blanket, getting just a bit more comfortable, "maybe it's the loss of control or something."
Rocky is quiet for a minute, his fingers tapping against each other in a small fidget as he absorbs this...disturbing information.
"But, not being alone does help. Especially knowing that someone is there, watching over me, making sure nothing happens." You add gently, trying to soften the blow, "it's just...my mind gets to better of me sometimes."
After another few moments of silence, Rocky nods, his fingers still tapping as he speaks, slower, determined, "Rocky watch. Nothing bad happen to [name] while sleep," he places his hand against his xenonite ball, reaching out to you, "Rocky here, Rocky protect."
You smile, digging out your hand from underneath the blankets before reaching out and placing it on his ball, covering his tiny hand.
"Thanks, Rocky."
He lets out a happy chirp as you settle back down, burying your face into the quilt as you try to sleep again. The anxiety is quick to return, but the feeling of Rocky's vigilance washes over you, warming you alongside Grace's body heat.
Sleep comes relatively easily, only disturbing a few of your thoughts before brain powers down, and finally rests.
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im gonna make myself a rocky plush so he can watch me sleep <3
everytime i close my optics i feel that toiling in my gut, the churning of nerves that always makes me sick. im restless, shifting after every attempt.
bumblebee is already recharing, his arms still warm and secure around me. i dare not wake him.
i try to find comfort in the pulsing of his spark, steady beneath my audial, but it's no use.
everything reminds me of my past.
i bury myself deeper into his chassis, my servos lightly gripping the seams of his armor, causing a small grunt to leave his throat.
im sorry.
i let my optics fall closed, trying to slip into recharge once again. every second i spend in the darkness, the fear builds.
my tanks churn with nerves, making my vents short and uneven. i feel stupid, pathetic.
who in their right mind is afraid of recharge?
it's a simple act, one most don't think twice about, they just do it. sure, some may have trouble falling or staying in it, but no one's ever afraid of it. except me, it seems.
it's embarrassing. normally my lover's presence calms my systems enough to not have any issues, but for reason tonight is different. i just cant get rid of the feeling.
i try again, holding it longer than the others, but a sharp spike of anxiety has me onlining my optics yet again. it's tedious, trying over and over again with hardly any success.
i can feel myself becoming more and more tired with each second that passes. maybe i should just wait until my body reaches a low enough power that it just pushes me into recharge automatically. but that could take hours.
i give it one more try, willing myself to be calm as the darkness slowly consumes my processor, it's insistant hands gripping at everything it can find, dragging me down with it. i force myself to go along.
goodnight bumblebee, i'll see you in the morning.
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i hate being scared of going to sleep this shit sucks, have a low quality fic as a treat <3
So, seeing the state of the world we are in right now I think it’s a good time to be evil and using violence against billionaires. So yup aggressive y/n and Decepticon.
Aggressive! Y/N: So…you want to take down our government and kill our leader?
Decepticon: That’s right! Be fear of our—.
Aggressive! Y/N: Can you count me in? I want to shoot some old bastard in the White House.
Decepticon: W-what? Why?! That’s your leader!
After explaining why.
Decepticon1: Scrap, your planet is frag because all of them.
Decepticon2: I can’t believe they eat the BABY.
Aggressive! Y/N: Yeah…could you help me slash them all? I’ll let you keep the oil and military stuff.
the large mech turns his head towards you, quirking an optic ridge in curiousity
"yes? what is it?"
you smile, looking up at him from your seat on the couch, phone still in your hand
"would you still love if i was a worm?"
"a...worm? what is a worm, my love?"
"its an earth creature. one thats like, stringy? not stringy, it just doesnt have any limbs, or sight, or smell, all it really does is eat dirt and shit it out again"
"ah..." optimus' optics zoom in and out as he thinks, absorbing this new information. he smiles back down at you with that tender kindness that always makes your heart melt
"i'd love you no matter your form, no matter your size or intelligence. you mean all the stars to me, and i would not give you up for anything" he lifts a servo to gently rub the side of your head with a digit
"awee you sweetie" you shift and wrap your arms around his finger, hugging it as you look up at him
"i'd love you if you were a worm too. two worms in love"
he smiles and rubs your head again, letting you hug his finger
finally living up to my name and writing for optimus (he’s my number one) rather than megatron lol
︵‿︵‿ ❤︎ ‿︵‿︵
An exasperated ex-vent came from Optimus as he stepped into your shared habsuite. You were lying on your back, legs crossed, as you held up a datapad in the air, still trying to learn Cybertronian texts.
Your head rolled to the side to watch Optimus enter the room, a few datapads in his servo, splayed out like playing cards, his audial fins pushed back slightly like an unhappy cat.
“Bad day?” you asked as you locked the screen of your datapad, shuffling up so that you could swing yourself around and sit in a kneeling position, your butt on the heels of your feet.
Optimus was moving sluggishly through the room, only giving you a short nod in response. He discarded the datapads onto the desk, the force of it scattering a couple of them across the surface.
“Come here,” you instructed, reaching your hands out to him.
He approached your shared berth, lifting one leg to stand on it before expending the energy to mass-displace it down to a tolerable size, more compatible with you.
You extended your hands further, giving an ushering gesture with them. He couldn’t resist obliging you, so he slowly lowered himself to his knees before leaning forward and placing his helm on your lap, turning his helm to the side.
His servos came up to loosely hold onto your hips, rubbing small circles into them.
A gentle hand found its way to the top of his helm, giving him a delicate stroke to soothe him. You could’ve sworn he softened a little just from your touch. You repeated the motion, head tipping to peer down at him, seeing his optics dim.
“So much fighting, hm?” You hushed, barely above a whisper, “so much pressure on you, the weight of it must be crushing. Even for a bot as strong as you.”
Optimus shifted slightly, his left leg hitching up to make him more comfortable.
“But you do such a good job,” you praised, “better than good. Your capabilities are endless, I couldn’t even to begin to list them.”
You ghosted your fingertips over the audial fin that was exposed to you, which made them flutter slightly, like an involuntary reaction. You smiled slightly at that, deciding to do it again.
“No one could even come close to you. To how noble, strong, kind, righteous, steadfast you are. There is no better mech to lead against the opposition.”
Optimus rubbed the side of his helm against your thighs, revelling in the softness of them. They made perfect pillows. The gesture his non-verbal way of asking you to continue, maybe?
“I count my lucky stars every day that I get to call you mine. For a simple creature like me to be blessed with the presence of the divine, it almost feels surreal.”
Optimus’ optics blinked back online, the bright blue shining brightly. He hummed in his chest before taking a firmer hold of your waist.
“You have it mixed up,” were the first words to come from him since entering the room, “I am lucky to have you. To have a beautiful being who has been so endlessly patient, so considerate, so understanding.”
You tutted at that, almost rolling your eyes at the statement. He really knew how to play it up, sometimes.
“I’m being serious,” Optimus countered before you even said anything, “your lifespan, it’s so- fleeting. Yet here you are, willing to stay here with me despite the war, despite my duties. I cannot help but sometimes feel like I have robbed you of your prime years.”
Your soft caresses ceased on his helm at that, eyes blinking just once.
“Optimus,” you voiced, “that isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” The guilt he felt wracked his voice.
“Of course it isn’t,” you shook your head, “look at how much you have given me, despite your circumstances. You have loved me, cherished me, moreso than anyone that came before you. You have shown me galaxies, stars and planets beyond what any human could hope to witness. You have lengthened my life, broadened it, by doing everything that you do for me.”
Optimus stirred at that, helm coming up from your lap as he now rose to his knees, upper body leaning towards you and allowing his face to be in your full view.
“I love you, Optimus,” you confessed, “my heart will forever belong to you.”
The mech’s mask retracted back into the sides of his helm, his dazzling beauty now unobstructed.
“I love you so very much,” Optimus returned, before moving forward to kiss you.
Your hands settled on his faceplate as you enthusiastically returned the kiss.
“More than, any words, could convey,” he continued to express through broken kisses.
Your heart fluttered, a shallow nod of your head non-verbally showing that you felt that same way, but he was always much better with his words than you were.
One of Optimus’ servos found its way to your back, drawing you towards him to urge you into lying beneath him. Never one to deny him what he wanted, considering how he rarely ever asked for anything, you heeded his desires and untucked your legs from underneath you.
Optimus’ presence on you pushed you back, so that you were lying on your back once again, all whilst never breaking the kiss.
“My one true love,” the mech uttered, moving his helm so that he could pepper kisses along your neck.
His way with words always made you blush; he was such a smooth talker, and he didn’t even realise it. The servo still on your back pulled you further into him, connecting your bodies further, your head tipping back to allow him the space to kiss down your neck.
Even though you knew this is where the night would probably head, you weren’t expecting Optimus to start grinding his interface panel in between your legs so soon. You let out a surprised gasp, hands moving to settle on his shoulders.
“W-wait,” with that one word, Optimus stopped immediately, unlatching himself from your neck and coming up to look down at you. If you wanted to stop, he would stop, no questions asked. The look on his face reassured you of that.
“I do want to, but I want to treat you tonight,” you reasoned with him, voice meek.
He cocked his head slightly, before you ran your hands from his shoulder to the windows on his chest plating.
“Swap positions with me.”
“Anything for you, my love.”
A short, breathy chuckle came from you at his willingness. You escaped out from underneath him, allowing him to pivot himself and lie back on the berth, just as you had asked.
You came to sprawl between his legs, your hands resting on his thigh struts, before lowering yourself to start kissing over his hip armour, dancing over the interface panel when you reached it. Your movements were slow and deliberate, you wanted him to savour every moment of this.
Your dexterous fingers trailed along his transformation seams on his thighs, running your nails under particularly deep seams to make him shudder. Little did anyone know that he was actually incredibly sensitive in those crevices.
“Will you open up for me?” You asked sweetly, feeling your breath against the warm panels of his plating.
The subtle hiss of panels whirring hit your ears as his interface panels drew back, his pressurised spike slipping free, standing tall and proud in front of your waiting lips.
“What a good mech,” you teased, giving a small kiss to the tip of his spike, drips of pre-fluid pressing up against your lips. You rubbed your lips together like it was lip gloss, before peeking your tongue out of your mouth to lick it up. He tasted good, it had a tingling sensation that ran along your tongue.
The sight alone made Optimus shudder with excitement. Even the smallest taunts for you sent his systems on the path to crashing.
His spike was such a marvel of creation, sleek and dark blue, with accents of red that ran up the length of him. He had small biolights that wrapped around it, spiralling down like a helter-skelter. It also helped that he was big. As you might expect from Prime.
You grabbed his stiff spike and guided yourself to his head. He watched you with tension, full of fervour. Your soothing thumb rolled over the tip, ridding the prefluid created just for you.
Breaking his tension, at long last, you dragged your tongue up the underside of his spike, all the way to the top to lick off any remnant of prefluid left. His servo tangled in your locks, bunching your hair up into a loose ponytail.
"Please, please suck it," he cooed down to you. The neediness that clung onto every word of his plea shot a bolt of electricity through you, straight to your clit.
You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped you from the sensation, and you enveloped your mouth over the head of his spike and swirled your tongue around it, bobbing your head down occasionally to fit more in your mouth.
Your mouth was almost full of him, your tongue going around him faster and faster like a corkscrew. His servos held your head, clenching tighter the more eager you got. You tauntingly brought your mouth back up, pulling your tongue across the underneath of his spike, and he let out a lengthy, breathy sigh, "You torture me."
Optimus grunted in arousal before thrusting his hips up and pushing your head down. You gagged at the unexpected motion, his spike forced halfway down your throat. Quickly, you pulled yourself back together sucked like he wanted you to, using one hand to jerk him off from the base, it rotating gently to stimulate him further.
Your other hand found its way to his valve, which was already soaked. Your featherlight touch teased the outer folds as your talented mouth continued to work his spike.
You could’ve sworn that a small keening noise erupted from Optimus, praising yourself internally for such a victory.
Deciding not to torment the poor bot any further, you stuffed two of your fingers into his valve, the tight callipers clenching your fingers as you worked your way in knuckle-deep.
Optimus’ hips arched up at the feeling, forcing his spike further into your mouth.
You sucked hard, and brought your head up slowly to make him feel a vast increase in pressure with your ministrations; like a vacuum. Optimus sobbed out your name, digits tugging at your hair.
You continued to suck and pump his length quickly at the same time, all whilst remaining coordinated enough to start thrusting your fingers in and out of his dripping valve.
Every drop of transfluid his spike made for you was sucked up by your mouth, the taste oddly electrifying yet so addicting. You moaned at the back of your throat, the vibrations running down his length.
"Primus, you are incredible at this," he rewarded you with praise and a soft stroke to your hair, but his subtle moans and grunts were enough reward for you.
The rhythm of your fingers changed, now using a beckoning motion to rub against his upper walls, teasing the rings that you felt there. He choked on his moan, he might’ve just died and gone to Cyberutopia.
He bit down on his derma and those studying eyes of his watched you suck him off, your pussy getting wetter and your thighs aching with desperation, your body screaming with the urge to be fucked into next week. But tonight was about him, about rewarding your big, strong mech for all his gallant actions.
You picked the pace up, slicking his whole spike with your saliva; the parts of his spike that you couldn’t reach were not free from your spit, as there was so much that it started to run down and pool at the base.
Optimus trembled beneath you slightly, his servos gripping the length of your hair tighter as he felt himself be pushed to the top of the mountain, his processor glitching as he released a heavy dose of transfluid into your mouth, his valve grasping your fingers as he rode out his high in the warm embrace of your mouth.
You gulped down as much as you could in one go, but the liquid was too heavy, too thick and far too much in quantity to take it all. Some of it slipped past your lips as you came off his spike with a ‘pop’.
Slowly extracting your soaked fingers from his valve, you stuck them into your mouth, all whilst his transfluid dripped down your chin, small droplets on it falling to your chest. Your tongue worked languidly around your fingers, making sure to get every last bit.
Optimus’ cooling fans were turned onto their maximum setting as his optics were blown wide, unable to fully process the downright filthy scene playing out before him.
Once you were satisfied with how much you managed to lick off your fingers, you used the back of your hand to wipe your chin and lips, giving him a sultry grin.
“Ride me,” Optimus said, he almost sounded breathless, even though that wasn’t possible.
“Yes, sir,” was your response, the grin on your lips never faltering as you lifted your top within the same moment, throwing it behind you. When you were in the habsuite, you rarely lounged around with a bra, so you didn’t have to worry about taking one off.
Next came your trousers, which were loose-fitting and comfortable, meaning that it took hardly any effort at all to rid yourself of them, which you did so with your underwear in the same movement. The articles of clothing meeting the same fate as your top, discarded somewhere behind you.
You crawled your way up to him, settling your legs on either side of him, placing yourself just behind his spike before sitting down, letting it rest against your stomach.
“You see how deep you are when you fuck me?” You gestured to where his spike came up to against you, the tip reaching over your belly button.
“So deep that you’re basically rearranging my guts. And fuck, baby, it feels so good.”
Optimus whimpered at that, his servos clasping around your waist as he tried to usher you up. One of your hands settled on top of his, whilst the other grabbed the bottom of his spike to help guide him in as you lifted your hips and hovered yourself over him, letting your legs do all the work in dropping yourself to meet him.
Your cunt swallowed his tip happily, letting your tight walls engulf the rest of him as you sat on him fully.
Both of you let out a subtle moan at him being seated to the brim within you, his digits twitching against your soft skin. You lifted yourself before dropping back down, cunt sucking him back in so that he could lose himself through the feeling of you.
Your cunt wrapped around him perfectly, you were like an addiction that he would never be able to sate. He was a glutton for the feeling of you, couldn’t tear his mind from the mental images of fucking you whenever he could, you are a very welcome distraction in the chaos of war. He needed it.
You could’ve melted on his spike right here and now as you bounced with wanton ambition, your toes curling as his spike made way inside of you, no challenge insurmountable. He would have you. He would have every part of you, without question. You belong to him, as he belongs to you.
Even though this was for him, you were getting so much pleasure from this as well. His spike is so thick that you want to ride it forever. Your mind is trained on pleasing him in this very moment, but it didn’t obstruct your own building heat.
“More, more, don’t stop, ah!” The baritone rumble of his voice pierced through your ears, his pleading so unbelievably sexy. You loved this side of the Prime, the side that wasn’t afraid to let you take the reins and fuck the life out of him.
You leant back slightly, placing your hands behind you and planting them on his thighs once again, now rolling your hips over him, causing the tip to rub so wonderfully against that spongy spot inside of you.
“Ohh fuck,” came an exasperated expletive from your lover, “fuck just like that, you’re riding me so good.”
Your eyes rolled back as you whined, chest heaving with heavy pants. The pleasure on pleasure is otherworldly, it's all yours to claim as you let your cunt give the Autobot leader all the loving he needs right now.
With his deft servos on your hips, he helped guide your movements and force you up and down at a pace that he deemed necessary. His vocaliser was simmering with static as he moaned for you, without restraint.
There was an unbridled sensation thrumming through his entire frame, one that he felt so often around you. It was as if he wanted to expose his very spark to you and ensnare you, trapping you against him forever, never letting you go.
You're working yourself over his unyielding length, going faster to draw more of those desperate whines from Optimus. His hips arch off the bed, giving an insane amount of depth. Your breathing is ragged and catching as you struggle to stay balanced on top of him, swinging your body forward to firmly steady yourself on his chest windows.
The heat rolling off of you caused a faint ghosted silhouette of the shape of your hands on his windows, which were staggeringly cold in comparison. You chanted his name like a hymn, vision blurring with the tears that built along the waterline.
Your mouth hung open, your brows creased as you screamed his name, as loud as you could. To hell with the others on the ship, you wanted them to know how good he fucked you. By how loud he was being as well, the others would definitely know what was going on. Your body was a maze in which he never wanted to find his way out of.
“I’d die a happy mech if I could stay buried inside of you forever,” he mindlessly stated, head lolling as you could sense he was nearing his end.
“We can have that arranged,” you recklessly promised with a harrumph, “just you and me, fucking each other forever.”
He nodded as his optics flickered with colour, “like turbofoxes in heat.”
You selfishly ride his spike whilst you swallow your moans and cries of arousal, your cunt being stretched out with each roll of your hips. You tilt your hips forward so that you can rub your clit against his pelvis each time you move up and down on him. The warm metal made such a good source of friction against your throbbing clit.
With the added pleasure, your vision began to double, and you could hear your pulse beating in your ears. The sounds coming from you were nothing short of pornographic, unable to compose yourself when you were on the end of his spike, like it’s where you belonged.
The coil inside of you finally meets its breaking point, the wrapped metal snapping as you let yourself fall into the heat of pleasure, the orgasm sending lava through your veins as you cried out, your head being thrown back as you squeezed down on him.
Optimus truly wasn’t far behind you, his grip on your hips now bordering on bruising as he effortlessly fucked your body, his hips now raising to thrust into you as well. Your body jolted, and your hair swayed as he chased his own release as if he were competing for a medal.
“A-ah, I’m- overloading, I’m overloading!” His frame quivered.
There's a sharp tightness that winds in his core, then a burst of euphoria as his tremendous relief flows, paired with a strained grunt. He rolls your hips over his spike a couple more times for good measure, making sure that his transfluid is fully dumped into you.
As he slowed you down, bringing you to an eventual stop and then lowering his hips, you were fruitlessly trying to catch your breath as his cooling fans still worked overtime to regulate his internal heat.
He looks up to you like you're the entire world, feeling fully satisfied.
You smile down at him, caressing a hand over his cheek plate.
In an instant, he flipped your positions again, so that you were now underneath him. You yelped at the unexpected movement, all with his spike still firmly inside of you. He ex-vented as he pulled out his length and then fixed his head to rest on your chest.
He was mindful that he might be heavy, so he was somewhat hesitant to let himself fully lean his weight on you, but you welcomed it nonetheless.
You wrapped your arms around him, gently playing with his audial fins as he lay on you in a similar fashion to how he was earlier.
He’s your big mech, and he decides when the cuddles are over.
"there's a storm across the valley, clouds are rollin in"
the evening air was chilly, the dark and cloudy sky complimenting the orange dust that covers the ground
"there's a truck out on the four-lane, a mile or more away. the whinin of his wheels just makes it colder"
optimus was tired, this last mission was grueling. the decepticons had been relentless, causing chaos all throughout earth. and the groundbridge had malfunctioned on top of everything, leaving optimus stranded somewhere in the desert
"he's an hour away from riding on your prayers up in the sky. ten days on the road, had barely gone"
everyone at base was worried. it had been days since they'd seen him, his signal still steady, but his tanks were running out of energon, he was going to power down soon
"there's a fire softly burnin, supper's on the stove. this light in your eyes, it makes him warm"
he rolls into the base with a weak, and weary engine, transforming slowly as everyone greets him. ratchet quickly hands him a cube of energon, watching him eat slow, his optics barely online
"hey it good to be back home again"
bumblebee is quick to hug him once his stability is confirmed, nearly crying for his friend. bulkhead pats his back, him and arcee sharing their gratefulness and relief of his return
"there all the news to tell him, how'd you spend your time"
miko is quick to recount the events that occured during his absence, you adding corrections and little quips as you caress his faceplate from your perch on his shoulder, just making sure he's real and not a trick of your mind
"oh the time that i can lay this old, tired body down. feel your fingers feather-soft upon me"
finally back in his room, optimus groans lowly as he settles down on his berth, you following shortly after. his servo comes up to hold you steady as you lay on his chassis, your fingers delicately tracing the seams of his armor
"it's the sweetest thing i know of, just spendin time with you"
optimus quickly falls into recharge, unable to fight the exhaustion weighing on him. the steady thrum of his spark soothes your worries and quiets your mind, the sound of his life coaxing you into your own sleep
"hey it's good to be back home again. sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend"
you were so tired, your body practically dragging you downward with exhaustion. today's mission was grueling, and the fight with the deceptions seemed to never end. but luckily you and bulkhead were able to get out with only a few minor injuries —truely by the grace of the allspark.
you only seemed to last a few minutes back at base before a large metal hand is carefully scooping you up and letting you rest on a warm, smooth piece of metal. you only notice it's bulkhead's chassis when you hear the rhythmic thrum of his spark pulsing beneath the green plating. you yawn and blink up at him, your fingers weakly grasping the seams of his metal with a silent question. he only smiles at you, gently patting your back with a digit, encouraging your rest as his palm supports your weight easily.
it doesn't take long for you to fall asleep within his grasp, his voice rumbling through his chassis as he continues talking to whoever, soothing your weary form and easing you into a restful sleep.
"Optimusssss..." You call out to the large mech, a slight whine in your voice as you try to get his attention.
"Hm? Yes, my dear?" Optimus turns to you, his big blue optics staring down at you with curiousity.
"I have a headache." You say with a small pout. You head had been bothering you all day and nothing was working, so now youre trying the boyfriend option.
"Hmm...maybe you should talk to June, she might be able to help you with your pain." He offers kindly, and without dismissal, his voice warm within his chassis. You scoff, stepping closer to him as you speak your wishes more clearly.
"I don't want June, I want you to massage my head."
Optimus blinks in surprise at your words, clearly shocked by your demand. Massage your head? Why...he would surely crush you.
"Please. Nothing else is working."
"Alright, just...tell me if it's too much" Optimus says with a small sigh, lifting up his servo to your head as you nod. Using his pointer and thumb, he ever-so-gently starts to massage your head. His metal is warm against your skin, pleasant and solid, and you can feel the strength in his tenderness, the way he holds himself back as to not hurt you.
You close your eyes and let out a small hum of satisfaction, your brain finally getting the relief it's been craving. Just the back and forth of his digits is enough to soothe you, and it's not long before you start to drift off. His other servo catches you before you have the chance to fall, scooping you up and keeping you aafe within his palm. He continues massaging, letting you sleep under the warmth and safety of his presence.
it had been a really long day, and all you wanted was to curl up and recharge. luckily your lover, bumblebee, was already in your shared berth, drifting off.
you smile and crawl in beside him, scooping him up into your arms and letting your frame envelope his smaller one. he hums softly, optics slowly blinking with sleepy confusion.
"shh, go back to sleep my love, its just me.." you whisper gently to him as you caress down his helm. he sighs softly, and buries himself into the warmth of your body, letting himself drift back to the sound of your spark pulsing rhythmically in your chassis.
you hold him close, taking a moment to appreciate what's yours, in case the war ever took him away from you.
sleep comes easily, washing over you with the familiar chill of the loss of vigilance, loss of control. but also the warmth of company, of love, and life.
hopefully tomorrow will treat you more kindly than today did
Imagine face fuckin one of the minibots. Your spike so huge it hurts their jaw but they love being used. Wet tears dripping from their optics and drool spilling out as you overload directly down their intake and fill their tanks with cum. 🤤 I was thinking bots like G1 bee but I love the idea of the even smaller bots like rumble and frenzy too. Maybe minimus
I am definitely using this idea again
G1 Bumblebee x mech reader (Facefucking)
You’d done everything you could to make him comfortable. Hell, you’d even considered how long you had to wait after he’d had his energon to do it. The idea had been his, so this much preparation was probably unneeded. But you couldn’t help but care!
As Bee settles himself on the bed’s edge, head hanging over the end, you can’t help but smile at the way his pedes can’t stop kicking. Blush heavy on his cheeks, plating hot to the touch already and that’s just from the angle he’s found himself to stare at you in.
You grab his temples, running your thumbs over his cheeks. “And you’re still sure? No cold feet?”
Anyone with optics in their helm can see the obvious size difference between you and your little lover. It had been a minor issue to work through in the beginning – to figure out what positions didn’t crush Bee mostly. Now? Bee looks at you with such pride you don’t really know what to do but smile back trying to match it. He is exactly where he wants to be, apparently.
“Bring it!” He licks his derma. “I am more than ready.”
Nodding, you retract your modesty panel. Your spike lands against his cheek, and you do a few slow rubs of it against the soft plating. “You tell me over comms if it’s too much, ok? Promise?”
Bee never had much patience for the specifics, waving a hand dismissingly before grabbing onto your protruding pelvis plating for balance. Opening as wide as he possibly can, forcing his glossa flat against the top of his mouth, welcoming your spike to fill his intake fully.
Not even halfway and there’s a small sound of complaint, his jaw stretched to the very limit, and you still have more to give. You have half a mind to ask, to stop and rethink – but then you’re hitting your housing to his chin and he’s moaning so loudly you can feel it through your frame to your pedes. Throat bulging with just how overly filled it is getting you hotter just by watching it move as he forces the overwhelmed cables to relax around your spike.
Soon, he’s swallowing around what he can, tongue forced in place by the sheer girth in his mouth. You keep your thrusts shallow and gentle. There’s that lingering worry in the back of your processor that you could very well choke or cause him genuine pain. Hell, you’re quite certain this exact scenario is written in some kind of handbook of how to dislocate a jaw joint.
And yet, Bee keeps moaning around your spike. His small digits in the seams of your armour tugging you closer even if the coolant pouring from his optics are arguing to do the opposite. Doing everything he can to take everything from the experience; to wiggle his tongue along the segmented metal to help spread the copious amounts of lubrication he’s providing. Able to taste you ever so slightly whenever you pull out, loving the taste dragged along his glossa and desperate for more.
Soon, you’re rutting into his open intake, thrusts eagerly working you up as you lean over him to get a better angle. You don’t remember at what point Bee’s own panels retracted, but it takes everything in you to not reach and spread out the thick pink beads on the head of his bobbing spike.
You already feel bad for the damage you must have done to your lover’s poor jaw, so there ain’t no way you’ll finish down his intake. Save him the feeling of absolutely choking.
But Bee won’t let you pull back. Using all his strength to keep you moving, to keep using his mouth as if it belongs to no one but you. And you don’t have enough time to get any words out to warn him before static spreads through your frame and you’re trembling while spilling as far down his throat as you can possibly get.
You’ll have to offer him a massage as an apology; have to be the one to explain to Ratchet why the yellow scout suddenly can’t chew correctly.
18+ mdni simon riley is a horrible lay, everyone says.
that’s what you’ve heard around base, from men and women alike. he’s too fucking big, apparently, fucks like the mean bastard that he is. hurts. apparently, he’s so cold he doesn’t even care for his partner. and apparently, every time anyone’s tried to sleep with him, they’ve always stormed out of his room, pissed off at him because his room is a hellhole.
apparently. it’s all word of mouth, but you believe it.
but after the end of the month drinks at the local spoons, you can barely get simon off you, he’s pawing at you with his big hands. the two of you split a cider in two, and he looks at you with his big brown eyes, “y- you’re really fucking hot.” he blurts out, kissing your nose with chapped lips.
his face is red, blushing deeply as you try your best to not flush the same. “and johnny told me you can’t ever think about the pretty lass on floor 3 with the filing cabinet, but guess what, i can.” he kisses you on the side of your head this time, and you’re enjoying his affections.
it’s only back in his room on base that he fumbles with his belt, before he looks at you again, “s-sorry, it’s just, i don’t really get to spend the night with pretty women like you-“
you want to hide your face in his pillows, his room is really fucking nice. he has plants, actual plants growing from gaz, sketch drawings from johnny, photographs of him and the captain.
his cock is huge, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach, but he still looks at you with his sweet brown eyes, “love, it’s okay if it’s too big…” he sounds dejected already, but you just shake your head, it’s nowhere near as big what the word around base was.
“it’s fine simon-“ you whisper, licking your lips and placing kitten licks on his length, feeling the taste of him coat your tongue.
“no no no-“ he shakes his head, pulling away before his hands touch your wet panties, “fuck, you’re so wet love.”
and then he dives in, tugging them off, before licking at your cunt with a sloppy tongue, he doesn’t have a technique down but whatever the fuck he’s doing it’s good, your legs are shaking as his tongue dips inside you.
“gotta make sure it’s good for you-“ okay, what the fuck was anyone talking about?
he slides into you with ease, and thrusts into you? his hands above your head, his eyes still looking at you. “you’re very fuckin’… mmmph… hot.” he says, with a grin on his scarred face that would look terrifying if it wasn’t for the way his brown eyes shone with sweetness.
it wasn’t long before his cock twitches inside of you, and his eyes roll back, “oh fuck love, right there— fuck!” he was filling you deep, his cum thick in your stomach.
“love?” he asks, whimpering, his head on your chest, “love, did you find it good?” he’s desperate for your fucking approval.
you kiss his head, his soft curls growing out of army regs.
“yes darling.” fuck the word of mouth, did anyone even try this with him?
“th-thank you dove-“ he pants, his cock deep inside you as you keep stroking his hair, feeling his breath even out.
